


Restoration

by Vae



Category: Green Men Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: M/M, mild irreverance, miracles and magic don't mix, random things about East Anglia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-22 20:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: May 1924. A miraculous well runs dry, and Saul and Randolph head to Norfolk to investigate why. Featuring saints and kings with very Saxon names, incompatible magic, far too many railings and possibly good intentions paving the way to the place to which good intentions usually pave the way.





	Restoration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



After a cold winter and a damp spring, every plant in the churchyard was thriving. Dandelions pushed their roots into the cracks between the stones of the church walls, daisies and clover spread in profusion through lush, vibrant grass long enough to dampen trouser cuffs with dew even if it hadn't been raining.. Black paint flaked gently from the iron railings around the memorial and ivy and ferns crawled around the memorial plaque proclaiming the site to be the ruins of the tomb of "Withburga, youngest daughter of Anna, King of the East Angles".

Saul looked at the empty space beyond the tombstone. "I thought you said it was supposed to be a well?"

"It is," Randolph twitched his trouser legs up and dropped into a crouch for a better view through the railings that the Victorians had seen fit to install around the well in question. "A sacred spring, to be exact, but I suppose you can't expect Saxon East Anglians to know the difference."

"Their word might have been the same," Saul said and squatted down beside him, apparently trying to get the same perspective. "I haven't studied the Saxons."

Randolph raised an eyebrow. "But you know about prevailing winds."

"That's more widely useful." Slowly, Saul reached a hand between the railings, pressing it against the grave ledger stone and closing his eyes.

Resisting the urge to do the same, Randolph stood up again, hands folded behind his back to control the instinct to touch the iron. It wouldn't help, and the paint looked as if it would flake away onto his hands if he did. "Anything?"

Saul's brows furrowed, and he shook his head. "Nothing, blast it. Could it be the church?"

"Christianity getting in the way of older things, you mean? Not in my experience. They usually build over them, reinforce the protections." Randolph stared at the dry hollow below the inscription, trying to reach out for the source of the water that should have been there, but there was nothing. No sign of any blockages, not even a channel. "Saints aren't really my usual either."

"I've noticed," Saul said absently, and flashed a swift, wicked grin up at Randolph that had him immediately and very intensely aware of their relative positions, in an extremely unsaintly manner. "Is this definitely the place?"

Randolph shrugged. "Inscription, empty well. Spring. I suppose we could go in search of a curate for confirmation, but I can't think it would be anywhere else."

"No, I suppose not." Shoulder to the railings, Saul stretched his arm further, finger tracing the edge of the ledger stone. "There's no growth around the stone. If it's really been in place for centuries, shouldn't there be plants around here, too? They're everywhere else."

"Is that your archaeological expertise speaking, or something else?" Attention focused, Randolph frowned at the edge of the ledger stone, taking a few steps to get a better view along the side. There was enough growth, enough ivy, enough life force, that he should have been able to sense something even with the iron railings sunk into the ground, but all he was getting was a sense of damp fertility and contentment.

Saul hesitated, the way he did when Randolph asked him to access his still-new senses, apparently still trying to analyse them instead of accepting. Education was a terrible thing for getting in the way of magic. "Archaelogical. I think."

There was no plant growth around the stone on the other side either, smooth stone resting against stone. There was, however, a gate in the railings, fastened with a new and well-tended padlock. "Good enough for me. What does it mean, archaeologically, then? Assuming it's not another saintly miracle that's keeping plant growth at bay so close to the sacred bones."

"That it's been moved recently," Saul said simply, then stared at Randolph. "I thought the bones weren't here? That's the whole point."

"Well, yes, but presumably the same power that makes the water flow would keep plant growth away..." Randolph trailed off as the logic twisted in his mind. "Except that the water isn't flowing and hasn't been for two weeks."

Saul plucked a damp but very dead sprig from the ground, carefully bringing it back between the railings without touching them. "Can you...?"

"Not a clue," Randolph said frankly, holding his hand out anyway. "Can't you?"

Saul shook his head. "It's not connected to the Moat, it doesn't work that way."

"It might." At least, Randolph could remember Theresa doing something with plants, but that might have been just Theresa rather than Walker business. She'd always been a talented magician. "Anyway, let's get it a bit further from the church and I'll try."

Standing up and coming around the railings, Saul placed the limp piece of plant on Randolph's palm, fingers lingering for a moment. "Do we need to go outside the churchyard?"

"Probably not, but we can try that if this doesn't work." Randolph touched his thumb to Saul's palm, then moved his hand away, carrying the plant towards the gate. "Churchyards tend to be warded to the nines, but it's usually against the demonic and so forth, not me."

"You're not demonic?" Saul grinned, shaking moisture from his hand absently before jamming it into his pocket as he fell into step beside Randolph.

"Not last time I checked, anyway." Randolph sent a tendril of inquiry into the plant, smiling in satisfaction as knowledge surged back. "You were right."

Saul managed to look pleased and bemused at the same time, an expression that gave Randolph the rather desperate and badly-timed urge to kiss him by the church gate. "Was I?"

Randolph laid the dead plant gently on the churchyard wall and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hand dry. "It's been dead for two weeks."

"It could be a coincidence," Saul pointed out. "Bits of plant must fall off all the time, and I suppose they weed around the tomb."

"That one didn't fall off." Randolph inclined his head back towards the well-that-wasn't before starting back in that direction. "And it wasn't weeded. It was crushed by a moving stone."

Saul opened his mouth, clearly thought better of it, and closed it again. Instead, he nodded towards the man in a black cassock was heading for them with a welcoming smile. "One of yours?"

"Ours," Randolph corrected quietly. "And no, we don't have anyone left in Norfolk. It's a problem, but the coast is more of a concern than - ah, good afternoon! Is this your church?"

The man beamed at them both. "Well, technically, it is of course God's church, or that of St Nicholas, but I am the rector here. Are you visiting the area?"

"Visiting the church," Saul said with a smile that probably looked relaxed to someone who knew him less well than Randolph did. "We heard about your saint."

The rector's smile faltered into surprise. "Really? I didn't think anyone would know just yet."

Randolph exchanged glances with Saul. "It's been a few centuries, hasn't it?"

"Ah!" The rector's face cleared. "You must mean the well! No, I mean, our dear Withburga has come home. Such a blessing."

"Come home?" Randolph repeated, controlling his expression carefully.

"Oh, yes." Clearly more at ease, the rector bobbed his head in the direction of the tomb. "The men from the ministry, you know. They said it was about time someone put things right, and quite right, too. You know she was taken by the Bishop of Ely? Not the current bishop, of course, his grace is a very Christian gentleman and cooperated fully with the ministry in her restoration."

"Sorry, are you saying that St Withburga's body is back in her tomb here?" Saul asked.

"Exactly," the rector said, smiling happily. "After all these years."

"How... lovely," Randolph said, suppressing the not-entirely-physical wave of revulsion at the thought.

"And still uncorrupted," the rector said, pressing his palms together. "A true miracle."

"And more than we hoped for," Saul said quickly. "What luck that we came here so soon after her restoration."

"Luck, or..." The rector gestured upwards.

"Indeed," Saul said, bowing his head for a moment in a gesture that Randolph couldn't bring himself to match. "Perhaps we might have a few minutes to make our devotions?"

"Of course." The rector bowed over his hands, still smiling. "Please, come into the church when you are done, if you wish to speak further."

"We will," Randolph said, itching to be rid of the man and the growing sense of _wrongness_ that wasn't the rector's fault but had started at his words. "Thank you, Father."

"A pleasure." The rector bowed again, turned, and headed off to the church.

Randolph waited until the rector disappeared around the corner of the building, then let his breath out in a quiet curse. "The Ministry?"

"The Shadow Ministry?" Saul echoed, in tones of similar distaste, and looked back through the railings at the grave ledger stone again. "I can see it now, why couldn't I see it before? I can see where it's moved, I can see where they lifted it."

"Iron," Randolph said briefly. "Iron, and they do have their own practitioners. Probably some form of misdirection."

Saul looked alarmed. "Iron stops us but not them?"

Randolph shook his head. "They probably cast it from inside the boundary of the railings. It's not strong enough to stop us from seeing once we know it's there, though."

Saul nodded slowly. "Look, I don't like it, but is this really our problem to solve? I mean, the church is rather beyond our remit, isn't it?"

"Usually." Randolph put his hands back in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to Saul. "Damn and blast. This isn't the church, though, it's the bloody Ministry meddling in things that are best left alone."

"Like the church?" Saul repeated.

"Like the..." Randolph shook his head, impatient with concepts and senses that words really couldn't explain, and strode away from the tomb in the opposite direction to the one the rector had taken, stopping when the mask of iron faded enough. "Here. Come over here and tell me what you feel now."

Saul did, delightfully obedient even with his frown, and gasped, one hand rising in shock as he rocked back on his heels. "Randolph..."

"I know." Randolph allowed himself to grasp Saul's arm, purely to support and steady him.

"But it's _blocked_ ," Saul said, sounding dazed. "It just stops."

"Shield of sanctity," Randolph agreed, letting go with reluctance once he was sure that Saul wasn't going to stumble. "That's what makes it our business. By putting her back, the Ministry have blocked the channels."

The flow wasn't even diverted, just blocked, and the pressure was very slowly beginning to build. It would probably take years to force another way out, years without the non-ecclesiastical protections that the spring had provided to the churchyard and possibly the town as well.

Saul shook himself briskly, eyes widening as he looked at Randolph. "The rector said the Bishop of Ely. Could it be _him_ again?"

The emphasis made it very clear that Saul wasn't referring to either the bishop or the rector. "From the dates on the inscription, Withburga was moved several centuries before _he_ was born, so probably not then. Now, though?"

Saul grimaced. "We need to go to Ely, don't we?"

"Since I very much doubt that there's a telephone in this town that I could use to 'phone Barney, we do," Randolph agreed. "Not until the morning, though. I don't fancy walking the streets of Ely in the dark if someone's working to weaken the ecclesiastical protections there."

Saul's expression hardened, and he nodded. "In the morning, then. They'll have a Bradshaw's at the hotel, I'll look up the train times tonight."

"Back to The George, then." Randolph glanced up at the sky, grey clouds gathering overhead. "Before it rains again."

"Before it rains again," Saul agreed, and walked briskly out of the churchyard.

Randolph spared one more glance for the recently re-occupied tomb before catching up, matching Saul's stride as they made their way through the town to the hotel where they'd left overnight cases earlier in the day. As they turned the final corner onto the road where the hotel was, the street sign caught Randolph’s attention and he bit back a sigh. Of course.

Of course their hotel was on Swaffham Road.

~~~

The George Hotel was an eighteenth century building, but the private rooms had thankfully been recently refurbished. Randolph placed his case on the end of one of the beds with a certain amount of relief and dropped into the only chair to watch Saul closing the door. "This isn't exactly what I planned when I suggested a night away from London."

"I didn't think it was," Saul said, and slid the bolt home. "Somehow I'm not surprised that this hotel is haunted, though."

Randolph waved a hand, dismissing the complaint. "I'll put wards up before we sleep. Actually, I'll show you how to do it."

"Don't I need to be a practitioner for that?" Saul put his own case down on the floor beside the other bed, shaking his overcoat as he took it off and hung it up in the wardrobe.

"If Isaacs can manage it, I'm sure you can," Randolph said easily. "It's just a matter of focusing your will."

"Max has a lot of practise at that." Saul eyed Randolph and the chair, glanced at the beds, and dropped to one knee to unfasten his case.

"So do you, my dear," Randolph said firmly. "No one ends up at Fetter Lane without building up a formidable strength of willpower."

"It all crumbles when you're involved," Saul said and gave a quick smile, unpacking his case with the same swift efficiency he applied to most practical tasks. Randolph was well aware that he shouldn't have found that quite as endearing as he did.

"I doubt that." Randolph sighed, gave in to the inevitable, and pushed himself up from the chair to open his own case. "We've been in here almost three whole minutes and you haven't even attempted to kiss me."

Saul nudged Randolph out of the way and, as Randolph had hoped, took over his unpacking as well. "When we could be interrupted by the Green Lady at any moment? I mean, I'm assuming she's nothing to do with the Green Men..."

"Just a coincidence of dress colour preference," Randolph promised. "My shirts can wait a few minutes. I can't. I've been thinking about your mouth since you were crouching down by the spring."

Saul laughed and turned towards Randolph, still holding a shirt. "My mouth?"

"And other parts," Randolph admitted with a smile, took the shirt and put it down on the bed. "But mostly your mouth."

Saul settled his hand on Randolph's chest, pressing lightly. "And you're certain that we won't have any spectral interruptions?"

"I'm certain that I can deal with them if we do," Randolph said, rested his hand on Saul's shoulder in his turn, and pushed. "How about you get back on your knees and leave the Green Lady to me?"

"If you insist," Saul said, easy in the way that took Randolph's breath away every time, and sank gracefully to his knees, his hand sliding down over Randolph's shirt to his belt, already unfastening the buckle as he settled.

Both hands on Saul's shoulders, Randolph briefly regretted not moving somewhere he could lean against a wall. Very briefly, because Saul's clever fingers were unfastening his flies and Saul's hot mouth closed over his cock, and all was slick heat and pleasure and dizzying movement spiralling towards tight, swift completion.

Randolph considered it wise not to mention to Saul the passage of the Green Lady through the room behind his back, or the somewhat scandalised expression on the spectre's translucent face.

**Author's Note:**

> St Withburga's Well exists in the Norfolk market town of Dereham, and by report never has run dry. The full inscription reads: "The Ruins of a Tomb which contained the Remains of WITHBURGA, youngest Daughter of Anna, King of the East Angles, who died AD 654. The Abbot and Monks of Ely stole this precious Relique and translated it to Ely Cathedral, where it was interred near her three Royal Sisters, AD 974". The railings, and the water, are still there today. Withburga's remains, presumably still uncorrupted since she was a saint, lie in Ely Cathedral where they have been since 974 when the Abbot and monks of Ely Monastery took her from Dereham in an attempt to get the pilgrims to visit her tomb in Ely instead of Dereham. Pilgrims continue to visit the miraculous spring, which is reputed to have healing powers.
> 
> The contemporary Bishop of Ely resigned in 1924.
> 
> There were no public telephones in Dereham in 1924, but there was a railway station.
> 
> The George Hotel has been hosting visitors to Dereham since the eighteenth century, and it is indeed on Swaffham Road.


End file.
